


Back in the GDR

by Mitchi_476



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 1 November 1981, Cold War, East Germany, Elsewhere Story, Muggleborns, Other, Pre-Hogwarts, Pre-Philosopher's Stone, first wizarding war
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-02
Updated: 2016-11-16
Packaged: 2018-08-28 16:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 14,021
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8453494
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mitchi_476/pseuds/Mitchi_476
Summary: Over the course of 1 November 1981, the Muggleborn Sabine Päktau must: run some errands, rescue the office, and break off an engagement. In her journey across East Berlin, Sabine experiences interesting encounters, journeys through her memories, and handles the absurdities of the Wizarding World behind the Iron Curtain. All while the world slowly learns of how a baby boy defeated a powerful dark wizard.





	1. 0600

0600, 1 November 1981, East Berlin

Six AM. Alarm goes off. It’s dark. Why is it cold? I really don’t want to get up. Why should I get up? Factory workers in China are probably going to bed. I envy them.

  
I need to get out of bed. But maybe I can call in? No, no. I can’t. Käthe doesn’t have access to those files. Dieter would kill me. Well, Dieter could probably kill a man with his thumb… God, I need coffee.

  
Then get up! Mutti’s not coming to give you coffee in bed!

  
I open my eyes. I look over to grab my watch and—

  
Fuck.

  
On the night stand’s a little velvet box. Blue velvet. I know inside there’s a gold ring with a nice diamond from the world’s most boring man. I know that I’m engaged to Till Leberecht. When Westerners think of an East Berlin bureaucrat, Till Lberecht was what they pictured. And the only thing I can do is grab a pillow and scream.

  
Okay. It’s more of a muffled moan. The neighbours would hear it.

  
Why’d I say yes? Fuck, fuck, fuck. Fuckitty fuck. FUCK!

  
I’ve thrown away my life. To Till Leberecht! Grim boredom personified! It’s over! I’m doomed!

  
Okay.

  
Sabine. You need to get a hold of yourself. You’re gonna be late for work—

  
It’s Sunday. You’ve got the day off, girl! I don’t have to do anything. Till. I have to do something about Till. He’s probably gone and blabbed about it to all his family and… Does he have friends? Like, actual friends who like having him around? That’s an interesting question.

  
Okay, lazybones. Get up! The Till problem won’t solve itself! I need a shower and coffee now. I won’t be going back to sleep anytime soon.

  
And I’m not desperate enough to run the Wall.

  
I go over to the bathroom. A sickly little place with yellow wallpaper and a blue enamel tub. As far as I know, it’s the only bathroom in the building that doesn’t have plumbing

problems. Probably because I fixed those a ways back. But why’s the water still cold?

  
Anyway, I could always aparate to Hamburg. No. No I can’t. What would Mutti and Vatti do? What would happen to them and the boys?

  
Why the Hell did he have to propose there? Why in the restaurant! Why in front my boss? In front of that Russian, what’s his name, Zeitsev? Yes Zeitsev? In Front of Dieter.  


  
Okay, the water’s finally hot. I take off my pyjamas and step in. The water’s near scalding. Where did he get the idea that we were an item? I mean. Have we actually been dating? But what constitutes dating? I put shampoo in my hair. Well what constitutes seeing each other? He’s bought me lunch, for sure. But I’ve done the same for him. The vast majority we’ve payed for ourselves. Oh, who are you kidding, Sabine. Till’s been trying his damnedest to get you for what, a year now?

  
I rinse and put conditioner in my hair; start shaving my legs. How was I supposed to know he couldn’t take a hint? I mean, general disinterest and boredom while conversing should be a strong indicator. There’s only so much interest one can have on the thickness of cauldrons before everyone is stops listening. We get it! British cauldrons are inferior to German cauldrons! Especially anything that comes from our glorious democratic republic.

  
I give a sigh. I’m being far too harsh. There’s someone out there for him. I think. And this mess wouldn’t have happened if I had been more firm. If I had been more direct. I turn off the water and start towelling off. If I had… I don’t know. God I’m a pathetic excuse for a human. Just go over to his office and tell him you can’t go through with it! I rest my head against the tiled wall and let out a sigh. Why did I not…

  
“Is that you, Sabine?” Mutti asks from behind the door.

  
“Yes.”

  
“Everything alright?”

  
“I’m alright. couldn’t sleep, that’s all.”

  
“Alright.”

  
She probably goes back to bed. I step out of the shower, towelled off and put my pyjamas back on.

  
We’ve been in this apartment for a long as I remember. We lived on Immaneulkirchstraße, in one of the thousands of square apartment buildings centred on courtyards that form the dense rabbit’s warren. Like most buildings in Friedrichsain, and most of East Berlin, ours still had the scars of war. Ours was a rebuilt grey, Wilhelmine building, pockmarked with bullet holes and in the courtyard you could still find signs of fire damage. Once in a while, we would find bullets and shrapnel in our walls and floors. A couple of months ago, some kids in a neighbouring building found some unexploded shells in their courtyard.

  
Our apartment, on the third floor looked over the rather forlorner courtyard with its single linden tree. When I was born, in 1956, we had to share a toilet with our floor neighbours. Over time, the we got some renovations, including bathrooms and slight expansion to our courtyard. And even then, the apartment where my brothers and I were raised and still lived in with our parents was uncomfortably cramp. Three small bedrooms for five people, a kitchen, and a bathroom.

  
That was all we really had. All that we had ever really been allotted for. Vatti was foreman for a tractor factory and Mutti worked as a secretary for the Deutsche Reichsbahn. My younger brothers, Philipp and Alex, are university students…

  
And why am I going through my life story while drying my hair?

  
Anyway. I am surprised no one else is up. I’ve been thumping about for… What is it now? It’s 6:22. I’ll put on a pot of coffee for everyone. Not the ersatz stuff, the good coffee.

  
I am not happy with how my hair is turning out. Brown, shoulder length hair refusing to take any shape. Where’s my wand? It’s in my room isn’t it. I go back and find it on the old sewing machine I use for a desk. It’s a Gregorovich wand, hawthorn, unicorn hair — good for charm work — but bought at a subsidiary store in Berlin approved by the Party. Heaven forbid an East German witch needs to cross the border for something.

  
Well, I fix my hair into something resembling stylish and throw it all into a ponytail. I put my towel back on the rack. Brush my teeth. I’ve never had my wisdom’s taken out. My jaw’s big enough that it’s redundant to pull them. I go back to my room. Dirty laundry and pyjamas in laundry basket. I put on my frumpy underwear, green sweater, grey skirt, black pantyhose. The Party strongly encourages witches and wizards to adopt Muggle attire, even to wear it at home. Robes are symbols of the past, the bourgeoisie, Western capitalist elitism. The usual line we learned in school. I go to the kitchen. From the pantry I get the good coffee. Actual coffee that we only use sparingly. The ersatz coffee, while made daily, always… left something to be desired. I take out the percolator. Pour in water, put the ground coffee into the top chamber and light the stove. Till, I’m sorry, but I just can’t. No. I know you’re a nice guy, Till, but I… It’s not your fault…

  
I take out plates and start setting the table for breakfast. Vatti at the end facing away from the windows. Mutti opposite him. Philipp likes to sit in the chair next to Vatti on his left, while Alex and I sit opposite. I set plates and cutlery. From the fridge I bring out bread, cheese, ham, butter, yogurt and jam. I cut up slices of bread and cheese. Till, I need to… I have to tell you. The percolator starts thumping.

  
“Everything alright?”

  
It’s Alex.

  
“Yes,” I reply.

  
“It’s 6:30”

  
“6:32, actually.”

  
Alexander and Philipp. Philipp and Alexander. My father had a particular love for the Classics. Philip and Alexander. The names of the great kings of ancient Macedonia. Philipp was the elder at 22, studying engineering. He looks like Vatti: blocky head, dirty blond hair, short and stocky body. Alex is just 20 and started studying chemistry. He looks more like Mutti and me: brown hair, light eyes, more slender and tall.

  
Alex sits down at the table and starts helping himself to the bread and butter.

  
“Why are you up so early?”

  
“What do you think?”

  
“Wow. Harsh.”

  
“Are you going to make a crack about mind reading?”

  
“Very carefully.”

  
The coffee’s done and I grab a mug. I pour coffee in and then add some milk. All this while I give a heavy, frustrated, disgusted sigh. The sort you got to suck in a breath for.

 

“Till Leberecht asked me to marry him last night.”

  
That gets a stupid look from Alex. Raised eyebrow and a screwed up face like he ate something particularly sour.

  
“Till Leberecht’s the guy who doesn’t shut up about those Dresden cauldrons, right?”

  
“Yep”

  
“And the same guy you compared to a wall?”

  
“The same.”

  
“And he proposed to you?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“And you agreed?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“As a joke?”

  
“No. There was a dining room full of people! I… What else was I supposed to say?”

  
“So as a joke then.”

  
“Shut up!” I say as a grab a tea towel, roll it up and flick it at Alex. He’s fully awake now to try and dodge the towel, food still in mouth and hands in the air.

  
“I kid! I kid!” he cries around his mouthful as I press my attack.

  
“Okay! Okay! Let’s not wake up the neighbours,” Alex says after he swallows, “What’s your plan?”

  
I take my cup from the counter with a shrug. “I don’t know.”

  
“Well you better figure out something,” he says before taking another bight of bread.

  
“I know.”

  
Outside, the morning light is still a leaden grey. The windows across from us are still dark. The walls are nominally a pale grey stucco, but enough soot and water stains have discoloured them. Directly across from us, the wall has a large area, triangle shape, that is much lighter than the rest. More war damage, Vatti says.

  
Till, I…

  
Till, I’m sorry bu…

  
Till Leberecht isn’t all bad. We work for the same department, the Portalschlüsselwaltung: the first people you meet when you take a portkey into the GDR. Got to make sure you’ve got all your papers in order and aren’t bringing in anything you shouldn’t. Anyway. Till is my age, half-blood, and about as exciting as the wall I’m staring out at. It’s hard to describe Till, because he honestly looks like any other twenty-something man in this country. Brown hair, brown eyes, permanent five o’clock shadow, hollow chested and not much wait behind him. Tell me, how many German men you know fill that bill easily? A lot probably. And while he nice, and helpful at work, he is oh so boring!  
His definition of ‘fun’ was making a ham and mustard sandwich and sincerely watching Der schwarze Kanal. He didn’t like going out to anything unless it was work related. And then he would talk… What was he talking about last night? Wait. Didn’t Till manage to trap that Zeitsev guy in some long winded lecture about Erlking hunting? Dieter and I had to rescue him.

  
“So, Comrade Leberecht,” said Zeitsev.

  
“I know. Doesn’t know when he’s beating a dead horse,” I said.

  
“It’s a gift,” Dieter adds, derisively.

  
“It is indeed. Never thought the hunting of Erlkings would be so…”

  
“Lifeless?” I answered, “He’s like a vampire to conversation. Sucks the life out of everything.”

  
That was all before the supper portion of last night. That was before Till, just before the desert portion, came over to my seat, got on one knee, and proposed.

  
I hear Mutti and Vatti starting to wake up. Vatti’s shuffled over to the bathroom. Philipp, though. Philipp could have a dragon roar in his ear and he wouldn’t wake up. His mandatory service was a nightmare because of how hard it was to wake him up. Didn’t help that he would kick you if you tried wiggling his toes.

  
I go over to the table, take a piece of bread spread butter and black currant jam on it. Alex has poured himself some coffee. I check my watch. It’s 6:45. The raven post should be here soon. It’s always here at 7:00

  
We use ravens east of the Wall to deliver mail. It’s partially cultural. Many see owls as either bad omens (which the Party was trying to stamp out) or simply stupid. If a Finn wanted to call you an idiot, they’d compare you to an owl. And there is the fact that owls are not the smartest bird out there. There have been more than a few times at work owl mail would come from Britain and the poor thing would fly into the windows. Ravens on the other hand. Ravens were frighteningly smart. Easy to train, infinitely clever, and always punctual. If they liked you. It’s been known that ravens will mess with the mail of people who were mean to them. The little buggers can hold a grudge, let me tell you. But the other reason for using ravens was that they were less conspicuous. Owls live in cities, for sure. But you notice owls when they’re out and about in the middle of day. Ravens are ubiquitous. They are like crows, pigeons and rats; they’re everywhere. No one’s going to blink an eye at a raven flying around with something, it’s probably some shiny they picked up.

  
Vatti comes out.

  
“Why are you two up?”

  
“Sabi’s getting married,” snorts Alex.

  
“Am not!”

  
“Tell that to Till.”

  
“I should.”

  
“Wait, what’s going on?” interrupts Vatti.

  
“Remember last night when I came home crying?”

  
“Yes.”

  
“That’s why.”

  
Vatti gives his ‘I’m getting too old for this’ sigh and sits in his spot. I pour him coffee and he fixes his breakfast.

  
“Is the mail here?” asks Vatti.

  
“Not yet,” I answer.

  
“I mean the regular mail.”

  
“Haven’t checked.”

  
“Well you’re dressed. You go get it.”

  
“Sure.” I say.

  
I go to the door and throw on my shoes. Next to the door is a small side table, stained dark brown and used to belong to Oma. There’s a bowl were we keep the mailbox key and other odds and ends. The bowl was that blue willow Dresden china. Nobody’s really sure where it came from, it’s always been in the family.

  
I head out into the hallway, painted mint green with dark brown accents and awful linoleum floor. The doors are brown with brass screwed on numbers. It’s dark, there’s no windows to let in light and the ceiling lamps gave off a weak glow; mostly because they hand’t been cleaned in a long time. At the end of the hallway was a rickety stare case, tight and sometimes airless and dark. It takes you down to the ground floor, were there’s the bank of mailboxes and the entrance to the courtyard. The ground floor is like the other floors, painted mint green and deep brown. The floor, though, is tiled black and white. On my left is the mailboxes. They were brass, but needed a polish years ago, and had small plaques with the occupants last names on them. I take out the key, unlock the box, and take out the contents. I take a few seconds to look over the contents. There’s something from the university for Philipp. There’s a water bill, a postcard from Tante Bettina and a letter from Opa in Rostock.

  
As I turn to go, something catches my attention. The door is glass and I can see out to the passageway outside. Sitting on the cobbles, not really moving, and staring as if I were the intruder, was four owls. Two little brown ones, a barn owl, and a grey long-eared owl.


	2. 0700

0700, 1 November 1981, East Berlin

I don’t really like owls. There’s something about them that creeps me out. It’s there eyes, I think. Always staring and so blank. Just staring. The paranoid part of my brain starts coming up with elaborate reasons for it to stare. The rational part is trying to put me at ease. It’s hard to trust anything in this city.

I head back. Three flights of steep stairs in the tight space is could make anyone slightly claustrophobic. I have the mail tucked in-between my left arm and breast. 

I understand why… No.

I am so… No.

There’s no good way to do this. I’m gonna have to be direct. I’m gonna have to be honest. And if I’m honest with myself, I should have taken him aside right away and said no. Should have done that instead gone home right away. 

God, these stairs! Could they be any steeper!

I’m back on my floor.

Maybe things would be different if I had… If I had said ‘yes’ that time. I don’t know. That was then. 

I get to the door and enter the apartment. It’s lighter now, and someone’s turned on the kitchen light. I put the key back in the bowl and hand the mail to Vatti. Mutti is up now, working over the range, boiling eggs. She’s dressed in powder blue robe, her hair in curlers. I go over and give her a peck on the cheek.

She turns and pats me on the cheek.

“So, my girl,” she says.

“So.” I say.

“You got engaged!”

“Yeah. And I’m gonna break it off.”

“So soon?”

“Of course.”

She lets out a breath and goes over to her chair. I take over at the pot with the eggs. She starts buttering her bread and says to Alex, “Could you get your brother up?”

“Philipp will wake up in his own time.”

“Just tell him that we’ve got breakfast ready.”

Alex gets up and goes down the hall and it’s just the three of us.

“How’s Bettina?” Mutti asks.

“She’s fine.”

“And Naples?”

“Filthy.” Vatti reads from the postcard, “Weather. People. Manners. Morals.”

“Well she is one to complain.” Tante Bettina was Vatti’s sister and a lecturer of Northern Renaissance art. And currently in Naples giving a lecture about socialist themes in the paintings of Pieter Bruegel the Elder. 

“And how is Opa?” I ask, floating the finished eggs over to the table.

Alex comes back into the room, “I told Philipp. He gave me a grunt.” 

“Well he better be up before nine,” says Mutti, and asks herself, “Anyway, how is Opa?”

I hear a ring coming from the balcony and look up. It’s the raven post, the bird ringing a bell attached to the door frame. I take some ham from the table and go out. Attached to its one legs is my mail and a copy of the newspaper. It chirps and coos while I take the mail. Der Komet was the paper of the wizarding proletariate! So they like to tell themselves. It was mostly just propaganda with a few snippets of actual news: weather, quidditch scores, the usual. I gave the raven the piece of ham while I fished out a coin for it’s trouble. The raven gives a happy croak, hops and fly off. 

I go back inside. But not before I notice more owls, sitting on the rooftops and dormers. This is getting odd. 

I close the door firmly behind me; the balcony door is notoriously stiff at the frame and not properly closing the damned thing has let in birds, squirrels, and other things.

I have two letters. One is a newsletter from my union. There’s to be a meeting next Monday with our union rep. A meeting in which we sit around in chairs while we go over communist theory and … yeah. Falling asleep is not uncommon.

The other letter is from Leni Salzwedel. She had been a friend of mine in school. This brings back memories. We had met about a week into our first year. We were eleven years old, far away from home for the first time. I from Berlin, Leni from a small town in Saxony. Her father was the local butcher and we were never short of cold cuts. But what was more important was the fact that we helped each other get over our home sickness. Leni and I were both the only witches in our families. We shared stories about the awkwardness of parents, siblings, and relatives dealing with our ‘unique’ status. The loneliness of not having anyone we could relate to when we got back to the muggle world for holidays. Our cover story was that we attended a sports school in the Harz Mountains, to get us ready for Olympic glory. But like any school friendship, after we graduated we slowly drifted apart; only keeping in touch occasionally. 

I opened the envelope. It was a wedding invitation. 

“Oh come on!” I say. I put my head into my left hand and start messaging my brow. The irony is palpable.

“What’s wrong, now?” it’s Alex.

“Leni Salzwedel from school is getting married in January and wants me to come.”

“Leni Salzwedel?” asks Mutti, “Your friend from school?”

Alex: “My God, it’s a sign!”

“Yes,” I groan, “She’s getting married to a…” I look at the invitation, “Paul Regenbogen.”

Alex let out laugh and Vatti couldn’t help but give a chuckle.

“Paul Reganbogen! That sounds like one of those crazy names from one of your old textbooks, Sabi!”

I give a bit of a laugh and put the invitation in the envelope. I will RSVP her. But not today. It’s just too much.

I reach for the newspaper. The headline was the usual propaganda. Apparently, all witches in the Soviet Union would be getting paid maternity leave. One one of the side columns was the headline ‘Strange sightings, Secrecy Breaches in UK’. 

“That’s odd,” I say.

“What’s odd?” asks Vatti.

“UK. There’s been some Statute of Secrecy breaches, apparently. Something odd’s going on.”

“So has anyone noticed all the owls outside?” 

It’s Philipp.

“He lives!” says Alex.

Philipp is still bleary eyed not in any sort of mood for anything.

“So what’s going on?” Philipp asks me.

“Why are you asking me?” 

“Because weird shit usually revolves around you.”

“Philipp. Language,” chides Mutti.

“The point still stands.”

I shrug and raise my hands, “There’s something weird in the UK, according to the newspaper. Otherwise, I don’t know.”

Philipp shakes his and sits down in his place, and slowly started to load up his plate. 

I check the clock, It’s 7:22. Till, I know that you… I think you’ve… It’s not…

I have the newspaper open and I’m not even reading it. I’m flipping through the pages. Leni’s invitation brings me back to Brocken. It’s the highest peak in Thuringia and long associated with witchcraft. In the spring, wizards and witches from all over Europe come to celebrate Walpurgisnacht. Bonfires, dancing, and pranks were common. The one day when wearing robes wasn’t frowned upon. It was a day off for us students. And the next morning, in West Germany, there would be May Day protests and riots. 

Brocken Gymnasium. It was one of the many schools across Europe that serviced those who couldn’t to Hogwarts, Durmstrang, or Beauxbatons. Especially us muggleborns and half-bloods on our side of the Wall. Our status made everything awkward, but we survive. That’s what we always do. 

Besides, schools like Brocken weren’t half bad. Brocken got us city kids out into the mountains, away from the pollution. In the morning we had muggle classes: German, math, foreign languages (mostly Russian), science, literature. In the afternoon, we’d switch over to magic: potions, charms, transfigurations, everything. After regular classes there was gym and some club activities or lectures on how we were to further socialism and achieve a workers paradise. Sometimes, the staff would let us wonder the forests and trails or go swimming in the river nearby. In our last two years (we didn’t graduate until we were 19) we’d visit factories, power stations, farms, wand, cauldron, broom workshops. This was all to prepare us for the adult world. On the surface, it was to give us more options than those who strictly learned magic. Why can’t we live in both worlds, striving for a greater tomorrow? The reality was that there simply wasn’t enough wizarding jobs to go around, so it was best to send us back into the muggle world. I was lucky to get my job, and it was mainly due to my 90 word per minute typing speed and the fact that I could speak very good Russian and English.

What am I doing with my life? I keep asking myself that. Pops into my head so often, but I can’t answer it. I don’t know what I’m doing with my life. I’m okay with my job. But I can’t say that I’m happy. Maybe I’m just bored of it after nearly three years. Okay, to be fair, I have seen some weird things witches and wizards think they could bring in. No you are not allowed to bring in Cornish Pixies, they are considered an invasive species, therefore, contraband. 

But the question still stands. What am I doing with my life —

“Sabine?” It’s Vatti.

“Yes?”

“Are you planning on going out today?”

“Well.. yeah…”

“Could you drop off some mail? If you’re going that way?”

“I guess.” I still have to get into contact with Till. He’s working today, right?

“Oh, yes. Sabine,” Mutti says, “We’re running low on soap, toothpaste, bleach for the bathroom…”

“You should probably write that down for her, Marta.”

“Yes, yes.”

“You know the shops aren’t open until 8:00.”

“It’s,” Vatti checks the clock, “7:30, by the time your mother’s written her list, it won’t really matter.”

“Sure.”

Mutti’s up at the kitchen counter and gotten a pad of paper and pencil from drawer. I take another sip of coffee. Till, you’re sweet but… Philipp’s scraping his teeth on his fork, again. I lean back in my seat. Despite the bathroom’s sickly look, the rest of the apartment’s rather nice. It’s small for sure; especially for five adults. But we have big windows that bring in a lot of light, especially when it’s sunny. The kitchen and living area is covered in green wallpaper with white sprigs of flowers. It wasn’t the gaudy mint green of the apartment hall, but a nice sage green. Soft and calming. The cabinets in the kitchen, most of the trim, too, was the same dark brown as the hall. 

To the left of the dining table is a brown couch and two arm chairs clustered around an old fireplace that had long ago been blocked up. The brown couch had a very distinctive dint where Vatti usually sits and the small side table next to it had burn marks from his cigarettes. Mutti’s chair, which faced towards the windows was, to better see her knitting and sewing, was upholstered in in pale blue and white gingham. Next to Mutti’s chair was the television set with rabbit ears and spindly legs. The other chair was a deep, but now faded, red, and was next to the old radio. The rest of the apartment was jumble of furniture collected over the years from various sources. Beds from country relatives, a vanity table given as a wedding present, peddle sewing machines (we have three) from various friends and relatives. There were pictures of Philipp, Alex, and I growing up, a little water colour from an artist cousin of the chalk cliffs at Rügen. It was a tight space, but we made it work.

“Here you go,” says Mutti, handing me the list. Soap, toothpaste, bleach, talcum powder, potatoes, mushrooms, rice, beef stock, cheese, bread, plum spread, and some cans of fish. 

“What time is it?” I ask, not looking up from the list.

“About 7:40,” answers Philipp.

“I guess I’ll get going.”

I get up, Vatti gives me the mail he wants me to post, and go to the front hall. I put on black ballet flats, black peacoat and beret. I grab my bag tote bag, with my wallet, identification papers, and other odds and ends. I place the mail and my wand in there, grab my keys, and go out into the hallway. Once again I descend the three flights of stairs and walk out into the cool November air. The owls that had been sitting outside our building are gone, but as I walk through the passages to the street, I notice more owls. They were mostly clustered on the roofs, though a few were perched balconies and flower boxes.

There paranoid part of my brain gets twitching again. Something big has happened.


	3. 0800

0745, 1 November 1981, East Berlin

What am I doing with my life?

I nags at me. It isn’t just the whole Till problem. It’s the feeling that I’ve let things go by. 

There were others before Till Leberecht. Three to be exact. All with their good and bad qualities. All being unique in how they begin and end. And rather unhappily. Real Anna Karenina principal there.

The graffiti tags are distracting. Nothing against them. But, could you be more creative than ‘lick my ass?’ It’s a bit weak.

Isn’t there a superstition in China about four being unlucky? Would Till be considered my fourth? God I hope not.

But still…

A car kicks back and I get a lung full of exhaust. I cough and wheeze, trying to catch my breath. The sickly sweet and burnt smell of gas up nose and in my mouth. I reach out and lean against a tree. I want to retch. 

That’s when I notice more owls hanging about. Something really big must have happened. This day cannot get any stranger.

I give another cough and spit on the ground. Wipe my mouth on my sleeve. I take a breath and continue on. 

Maybe I could send the ring back with a letter telling Till no. That’s the coward’s way out, though. But what am I except a coward?

Mattias Gerver was my first. First boyfriend, first kiss. All that. I was fifteen and the biggest idiot ever about it. I couldn’t even say I was lovestruck. I was a pimply faced teenager with a rat’s nest for hair. He was just as awkward as I was. Kind of resembled a puppy with his lanky limbs and big brown eyes. I was just surprised that anyone would consider me for a second like that. Flattered for sure. But so unsure.

We met in class. 1971. We were partnered up for an assignment, I forget what. A brush. A touch. One misunderstood look. An understood look. Faces burn red. 

One particularly cold November day — the sort that makes a single breath burn the lungs — he asked: “Do you want to go out some time? To town… maybe?”

An off guard “yes.” A few months later, on a windy March day we were walking in the forest, talking about who knows what when I asked: “What are we?”

“What?” Mattias asked.

“Us. You. Me. We. What are we?”

“As in if we’re…”

“Dating. Going out. You know.”

“Well,” he said, rather flat footed, “I’ve always considered you my girlfriend.”

“You… do.”

“Yes.”

I kissed his cheek. Held his hand. We were together for six months. Officially that is. From that day in March. And I cannot say that I truly enjoyed all of it. Young love is often romanticized. Seen as the be all end all of human interaction and relationships. Full of life and energy. The six months were uneventful. We didn’t do much. We hung out. We talked. Couldn’t say it was the greatest conversation.

Mattias wasn’t really interested in anything. He liked card games. We played a lot of skat. Listened to music and I can’t say I really enjoyed his tastes. At the time, I had my head in art books and sketchbooks littered my room. Can’t say I was any good. 

In the end, it fizzled out. Hindsight says that it was inevitable. And how many people end up with their first boyfriend? With their first love? Very few. At the start of the next school year, we barely talked. We hung out with our respective friends and that was it. The end.

It’s just past 8:00. I’m standing at the mail box, Vatti’s mail in hand. Till, I’m sorry, but… God, I’m worked up. 

I’m standing here, standing in the middle of a sidewalk, trying not to cry. All over a boy I dated for six months ten years ago. 

I push the mail into the box.

I was cruel to him. Mattias. I use to tease him. Needle him. Made jokes about him. Talk behind his back to my friends, Leni in particular. Leni didn’t really like Mattias to begin with, thought that he was rather boring, uninteresting, sloppy. 

God, does he wash his hair? 

Or his clothes?

And why do I have to do everything for him? 

It’s such a chore.

I think I broke his heart the moment I made some snarky comment about something he liked. Of course I forgot what it was. Of course I continue to be cruel to him. That’s truly when things started falling apart.

I post the mail. My chest feels heavy and tight. This is why I hate myself. How hurt people so easily.

I am so sorry, Till.

I take a ragged breath. Steady myself. I remember a teacher telling me that when you’re upset, you pour yourself a stiff drink, fix your lipstick and mascara, and pull yourself together.

Back strait. Chine up. I continue down the street.

It’s not that bad of a day. Cloudy, yes. But comfortably cool with a nice breeze. I can’t complain.

Till, I have…

I wonder what’s happened to Mattias. We never talked after we broke up. And after graduation, well, never heard from him after.

Everything’s grey. That’s not right. There are buildings painted bright colours, cars, and signs and all that. Everything just feels grey. Cars honk. People talk. A dog barks from somewhere. This always happens when I think about them.

I get to the grocery store. It’s 8:17. I pick up a basket and head in. I normally don’t pay attention to others when shopping. In fact, I tend to be the sort of person who prefers quickly getting what I need and get out without interacting with anyone. I tend to turn into a mess around store clerks. I don’t know why. I’m perfectly fine at work. But maybe it’s because at work, I’m in control; I’m the one with power. When I am the customer, I feel overwhelmed.

But today…

“Have you seen the owls about?”

“Yes! It’s so strange, isn’t it?”

“Little bit creepy, if you ask me.”

So this isn’t just me then.

I am over in the cleaning supplies aisle. Bleach in hand. I fully understand that I could keep our apartment spotless all the time. A flick of the wand and the floors are as good as new. Mutti, however, insists on me not using magic.

“You don’t need to, my dear. It’s just as easy by hand.”

Or: “It’s more satisfying when you put some effort into it…”

My parents have always been kind and infinitely supportive. I know. And I tell myself that to remind myself about how lucky I am. But I know that they do not understand what it’s like being someone like me. Being a witch.

I love being able to make the impossible happen. Brew a potion that could bring me infinite luck. Cast a spell that could fix anything. Use a charm that could make anything float for however long I wanted. That sort of ability opens so many possibilities to what can be done. 

And yet, there’s a look I get from my parents and brothers. I don’t see it often, but am keenly aware of it. It’s impossible to really describe. You need to experience. But it’s the sort of look you get when you say that there’s something about you that makes you different. Strange. No one could see it on the surface, but you are not the same anymore. You’re the same as anyone else, but you’re not at the same time. I know how much people love to categorize. It’s human nature and how we as a species handle our world: with clear cut, well defined categories. The moment something doesn’t really fit, is the moment people don’t know how to handle you.

I’ve seen the same look, when someone I knew told us that they suffered from manic depression. And there was the moment of disbelief and not knowing what to do with this person. They seemed perfectly fine on the surface. But now, when you think about it, there’s been something odd about them. They’ve always been different. They look the same, but they’re not the same anymore. The moment I learned I was a witch, my parents looked at me with the exact same look. They put on a brave face — and let me go to Brocken — but I knew they were always going to be uncomfortable with my magic. 

I’ve learned to accept this. I don’t question it. I know what to expect in the event I tell a muggle what I am. Do I wish it didn’t have to be this way? God yes. Any day I would take a world where mundane and magic could live side by side in peace. But I’m enough realistic to know that that will never happen in my lifetime.

I put the bleach into the basket and carry on absent minded. 

Till, I understand…

I check my watch. 8:38. I’m in a strange headspace as I move to the checkout. I barely hear anything going on. 

“Miss?” the clerk sounds like she’s underwater. “Miss?” loader and clearer.

I pay, and take the groceries home. Once I’m outside, my funk is lifted for a bit as I’m reminded that owls are still flying about. Now joined by messenger ravens and crows. I notice more people stopping and staring at the strange sight.

“Is there a storm coming?” a young man next to me asks a woman. She gives a gallic shrug.

I turn and head back home. A wave of self loathing comes over me again. 

Here’s some advice: don’t leave me alone with my thoughts. I have this tendency to spiral into these… bleak moods. It’s like sinking into mud. I feel like I can’t get out. 

I hate myself because of what I have to tell Till. I don’t love Till, but I will break his heart. I hate myself because of how I treated Mattias. I know we would never had worked out, but I should have been much, much more kind. I hate myself because I’m just as guilty as anyone else, even more so than most, for being a hypocrite. I judge others, but I hate being judged. I’ve made fun of others, yet have also been made fun of. I’ve been cruel, and others have been cruel to me. 

In an ideal world, those who have known pain should turn the other cheek; show unfailing kindness, compassion and empathy. This is not an ideal world, though. In this reality, all we do is hurt each other. And I’m pretty good at it.

It’s 8:55 when I get back to our building. I go back through the door. I go back up the stairs. It’s a blur. I’m numb. I get back to our door and open it. It’s 9:00 now.


	4. 0900

0900, 1 November 1981, East Berlin

“Is everything okay?” asks Vatti.

No. Nothing’s okay.

“Yeah… Of course. Why do you ask?”

“You look upset.”

“Well, I’m fine.”

I’m not. I’m really not. My chest feels heavy. My throat is tight. I need to cry. I quickly go to my room. Close the door behind me. I lean against it, taking in ragged breaths. Get a hold of yourself, Sabine. Dry your eyes, push it back…

Fuck it. You’re a bitch. A fool. You’re cruel. You don’t deserve happiness. 

I tailspin into despair. I sink onto my bed. Lie down on my side. I feel the tears well up. I hate myself. I’ve always hated myself. I don’t know how people tolerate me. I don’t know how I tolerate myself.

Stop thinking.

Stop thinking.

Stop thinking.

Breathe.

I’m going to have to be cruel once more. I’m going to have to dash Till’s hopes, no matter how misguided they are.

Breathe, Sabine.

Tears fall down my cheeks. Breathe. You’ve been through worse. You don’t deserve to beat yourself up like this.

I wasn’t a bad student. Wasn’t the best either. Procrastination being my greatest vice. Well, the procrastination actually came more when I was in secretary school. At Brocken I had the strange problem of completing my work, but never handing it in until my teachers started asking about it. More just to say that I did the work then to give me any marks.

I don’t really know why I did that. I usually chalk it up to feelings of not being good enough. I could do better I would always tell myself. I was always surprised when I did get good marks for what I handed in. I was always surprised by any praise or acknowledgement or awards I got for my work. I was surprised when I got the chance to go on a school trip to Moscow to practice my Russian. I was surprised when I was made office supervisor last spring.

Stop thinking that way.

Says you.

God. I turn onto my back and stair up at the ceiling. Stop thinking, Sabine. Stop thinking for five fucking minutes. 

Breathe.

Deep breath in.

Deep breath out.

Repeat.

I check my clock. It’s 9:14. The ring box is still on the bedside table. 

I know how…

No you don’t Sabine. You don’t know how much Till loves you. Or thinks he does. He’s infatuated for sure. Been that way since school.

In our last year, when I started seeing Daniel Becker, Till and I were in the same charms class. We were in the same study group and he was rather vocal in opinions on theory. Particularly about counter-charms. It was cute in a way. The sort of enthusiasm a puppy has when playing with a new toy. I took a somewhat opposite view to Till on the nature of counter-charms, often leading to heated, yet playful, debates. Maybe that was when he started to notice me like that. Even though I was unavailable.

I didn’t really come into my looks until the end of school. Skin started to clear up on its own. Had a better eye for clothes. I started getting more confident in my school work, and thus had a general boost to my overall confidence. And people notice that. It’s more attractive. I shouldn’t really contradict myself. I’ve always had shitty self esteem and confidence, but I was a lot better at eighteen-nineteen than I was at fifteen.

Anyway, my relationship with Till at that time was playful. Teasing. Get ideas out of him. Get him out of his shell. I don’t know when he became so dull. It’s sad really. There was some genuine fire and passion there. Now there’s just a hollow of a man. A caricature of the ideal proletariat office worker. A martinet that would make for fantastic propaganda.

I am so sorry, Till. But I can’t…

A knock on my door.

“Is everything okay?” asks Mutti.

No.

“I’m fine, Mutti.”

“Can I come in?”

I don’t answer. She enters anyway, as mothers are want to do. She’s in a dress and cardigan, the curlers now out of her hair. I stubbornly look back up at the ceiling. It’s white and flat and uninteresting. But part of me wants to act like a sulking teenager.

Mutti closes the door behind her with a sigh.

“You know, Sabine,” she comes and sits on the edge of my bed next to my feet, “You can always tell me what’s going on. I know you’re upset about something and I wouldn’t be too wrong to think that it has something to do with last night.”

“I know” I say weakly. I sit up and gather my knees close.

“I know that you don’t love Till. I think we all do. And it’s not fair you that he doesn’t seem to understand.”

“Yes,” the tears are come back. Try to not cry, Sabine, “But what do I do?”

“Well, breaking off an engagement is never easy, dear.”

Mutti now has my attention.

“Break off an engagement? Mutti, do you have experience with this?”

“Well,” she begins, blue eyes spark, “Yes.”

Truth be told, my brothers and I have never really been that curious about our parents’ lives before we came along. We know Vatti and his family are from Rostock, Vatti started working young. Tante Bettina went to school and married well. And Opa and Oma don’t like to talk about the war. Mutti has two sisters and a brother (Tantes Kerstin and Janina and Onkel Karl) and parents who, again, rarely talked about the war. 

They met here. Apparently Mutti’s bicycle chain had broken and she didn’t know what to do. Vatti, out of a fit of chivalry and being conveniently close by, came to her rescue. They kept running into each other until finally Mutti invited him to lunch (a feat as Mutti was living in a women’s only dormitory at the time and all men were verboten). The rest was history apparently. Until Mutti’s revelation that there was someone else.

“Well,” Mutti starts, “When I was in school, I was seeing a friend named Jonathan Müller. He was a neighbour and a very nice young man. And an excellent dancer, if I say. We were seeing each other since we were seventeen…”

“And he asked you to marry him?” I ask tentatively.

“Yes. Yes he did,” Mutti answers wistfully.

“But that didn’t happen. You and him.”

“No,” she says, “No. It didn’t. What happened was that I had been falling out of love with him for a while.”

“So what ended it?”

“The final straw was some comment he made. It was a rather presumptuous one. Something about me leaving my job to take care of the children when we had them.” 

“Really?”

“Yes. I think I was more upset over how he just presumed that that’s what I would do without question. Not even considering that I did, and still do, love my work.”

“That’s harsh of him,” I comment, then ask, “So how did you break it off? When did you break it off with Jonathan?”

“Oh, it was after I had asked your father to have supper with me at my dorm, actually. After he fixed my bike and we started talking to each other. I knew. I was so aware that Jonathan and I could not possibly be together and your father was a sight to behold. So after that supper with your father, I met up with Jonathan after work. And I told him. I told him the truth and..”

“Was it…?” 

“Hard? Yes. It was very hard to do. We had known each other for so long that I felt that I was betraying him. He didn’t understand at first, and I had to admit a lot of things I hadn’t been wanting to tell myself, let alone him.”

“Did he take it well?”

“I guess so. I can’t say that we have been friends. We’re more like acquaintances now, but it’s not as tense as it once was when we broke up. Of course, his parents and your grandparents are friends, so things were very awkward for a long time. And I had to introduce your father to your grandparents and the rest of family.”

“So what should I do with Till?”

She takes a breath and places a hand on my knee, “Whatever you do, Sabine, you must be honest. And you must be kind. Poor Till obviously does not understand that you have not had any feelings for him, so you’ll have to be kind. But be firm. And above all that, my dear, be honest.”

Mutti gives a smile and I smile back.

“Everything will be okay, dear.”

“Thanks, Mutti.”

She gets up and leaves, then turns and add, “Oh, yes. I almost forgot. I was planning on doing some laundry, could you just leave your basket outside your door, thank you!”

I smile to myself. I take out my wand from my purse and charm my laundry into it’s basket and put it outside the door.

I’m so sorry Till, but…

I must be honest with him. 

I must be honest with myself. 

Mattias and I fizzled out. We were just not compatible. And I was a cruel, hurtful teenager at fifteen. I shouldn’t have said those things and treated him like I did. Daniel Becker and I were different. Very different. 

Like Mattias, Daniel and I met in school. We’ve known each other for a while. Brocken’s a small enough school that even if you don’t talk to someone regularly, you still know about everyone. And Daniel and I hung out as part of the same friends group. More so than Mattias. And in many ways, Daniel was more fun to be around. He played quidditch, was good at football. He actually liked to go out and have fun. Actually could make me laugh and smile.

We were in the library, studying, when it all happened.

“What are you looking at?” I asked. Daniel had been staring at me for the past while. You know. Looks at me when I’ve got my head down, then furtively looks away when I look up.

“Nothing.”

“Really?”  “I’m looking at you.”

“Why’d you do that?”

“Maybe it’s because you look rather pretty in the candle light.”

That got me blushing. Face, ears, and neck hot.

“You must be crazy then. I’m not that pretty.”

“You are!”

“Stop that.”

“Oh come on, Sabi,” he said, putting his hand on mine, “You’re always selling yourself short.”

Heart’s a flutter. So physically close together. Daniel was pretty handsome by most standards. Tall and blond and looked like he was carved from marble. In my teenaged brain, he was a Viking god, riding off to some far off peak or forest to slay a dragon. My own personal Siegfried. 

“So Sunday, some of us were thinking about going to one of the camp sites. Set up a nice fire. Roast a few sausages from the kitchen…”

“Okay!” I say with a giggle and the biggest grin, “Okay. Is it a date you want?”

“Well…”

“‘Cause it’s a yes, Daniel. It’s a date.”

I check my clock. It’s 9:43. It’s really been that long? Time is a strange thing, for sure. 

Till, we need to…

Till, I have to…

At the very least, Till isn’t Daniel. But Till may be very much like Daniel. My relationships with Daniel and Mattias were very different, and how they ended was just as different. Mattias and I fizzled out. Daniel and I imploded. Daniel, for all his supposed confidence was very different. The confidence that I had perceived for years was rather superficial when you really got to know him. Things became stifling. And when I broke things off, it was hard. Daniel took it hard. I took it hard. I genuinely like Daniel. 

He was a vast improvement on Mattias in terms of doing things, having fun. But I couldn’t stand having to do all of this emotional work and receive so little in return. I couldn’t stand not being trusted and having to constantly “prove” myself to him. And when I ended things (I always seem to be ending things) Daniel didn’t take it well. Couldn’t understand why I was leaving. Couldn’t understand that I was so exhausted trying to cater to his needs. There was a lot of tears. A lot of yelling and crying. We’ve never spoken since. God that seems to be something I’m good at. 

I’m scared it’s going to happen again.

It’s 9:56 and I need to get my mind off this. Maybe there’s news about what’s going on in Britain. I might get a laugh from it.


	5. 1000h

1000h, 1 November 1981, East Berlin

“Have you seen the owls flying about?” asks Philipp.

Philipp is up, he’s dressed, and he’s sitting on the couch being lazy. It’s an improvement on his usual habit of sleeping for the rest of the day. I still don’t know how he’s managed to stay in engineering school.

Outside, the owls are still sitting on rooftops and flying about. Ravens and crows cloud the sky. 

“Surprised I haven’t been called into work yet,” I say.

A knock at the door. 

“I’ll get that,” calls Alex, “Oh he…”

“Is Sabine there I need her right now!”

“Käthe?”

Käthe Bauer slides in. She’s on the small side, mousy brown hair, big hazel eyes and very out of breath.

“What’s going on?”

“The owls.”

“Yeah?”

“Something happened in England. Portkeys coming in. We need help. Right now.”

“Okay,” I say, “Give me a moment.”

I go back to my room, grab my coat and purse. I take the ring box this time and put it in with the rest of what I need.

Till, I want to say…

“Okay. Lets go,” says Käthe.

“What’s going on?” I ask as we enter the hallway.

“So everything was going pretty okay until all these owl messages started pouring in from England about something going on there. And then we started getting people coming in asking for portkeys to England to find out what’s going on. Then we got the portkeys coming in… It’s nuts.”

“Okay. So what’s going on in Britain?” I ask.

“You know that dark wizard they’ve been having problems with. What’s his nuts? Voldemort.” says Käthe.

“Yeah.”

“Apparently he’s gone.”

“Gone? As in dead? Or as in vanished”

“I don’t know. Hope we find out soon.”

“This is new.”

“And strange.”

“Brave new world.”

“We’ll see”

We get down to the ground floor. We look to make sure no one is looking. Then Käthe grabs my arm and we apparate to a park near the edge of the city. 

Our ministry set up its headquarters on the very outskirts of Berlin after the war. It used abandoned bunkers and underground constructions for most of the infrastructure. To muggles, the area looked like a poorly kept park with a long abandoned air raid tower. Nothing interesting to see. Only today, their would be some interest in the sudden gathering of owls, ravens, and crows. 

We head to the air raid tower. Käthe brings out her wand and taps on the door three times. Twice on the hinges, and once on the doorknob and it opens before us. We descended into the dark, cold stairwell. It was lit by ghostly, amber flames floating next to the walls. While the concrete floor and walls weren’t wet, there was a dampness to the air for most of the way.

Till, I really need to…

At the bottom of the stairwell was a long hallway, going about 15 meters and still lit by the amber flames. At the end was a door. A simple steel, reenforced door like what you’d expect from a blast shelter. Behind it though, lay the headquarters of the People’s Ministry of Magic. A large atrium looked down upon a black and white tiled main floor. The balconies surrounding the atrium with red carpet. On the north end of the atrium was the symbol of the People’s Ministry, a red star and two crossed wands, surrounded by a wreath of oak leaves. 

And yes, the headquarters had been modelled on the British Ministry of Magic’s headquarters. We won’t lie about that. I doubt we’re even ashamed about it. Some even claim that the Brits took inspiration from us (which, by the way is an absolute lie because the West Germans and the French had the exact same idea; look it up). We weren’t going to copy everything the Soviets did. And underground was considered far safer and more inconspicuous than an above ground building. And unlike Moscow Oblast, let alone the rest of the freaking country, we didn’t have the luxury of vast tracks of land. 

So yes, we are inside the Ministry building. Käthe and I head right to the elevator. It’s a pretty bog standard steel affair. Inside, it’s gold and black and uncomfortably cramped with the amount of people squashed inside. 

Everyone looks haggard. Hair frazzled, clothes rumpled, faces tired. I push the button for our floor, the fourth. We stopped at every floor before getting to ours. Käthe and I were jostled between the front of the elevator until we were finally spewed out with some others. The fourth floor is mostly made up of the transportation department; in charge of everything from broom regulations to floo powder quality. It’s already busy. Hectic and full of people hurrying in and out of the frosted glass doors. 

Käthe and I push are way through, finally getting into our department and working our way down the corridor to the Portkey office. The hall, just like the balcony surrounding the atrium, is crowded; full of people going too and fro, with files and papers under arms, all in a great explosion of confusion. Above our heads, messages whizz past in paper airplane form. 

We get to our office. On a normal day it’s fairly quiet. It’s dull room, painted in hospital green and grey with rather ugly, uncomfortable upholstered chairs and a high desk separating the public waiting room and private cubicles and offices in back. The front desk has dividers that form five small cubicles between the staff; to give the illusion of privacy and allow for greater concentration on individual tasks. There’s a cork board on one wall with official messages and posters, a side table with pamphlets about what we do, Portkey security and East German tourism. 

But today, the office was in chaos. People jostling to have their papers checked and trying to figure out what is going on. Behind the large desk was Jutta Braband, Leona Geiszler, Ulla Wirnheir and Reiner Lehmann trying their best to get the situation under control.

“Sir… Sir… Could you…”

“No, ma’am, I cannot…”

“Please, could you…”

I push forward to the swinging door with Käthe behind me.

“We’ve got people popping in without the proper visas and ID papers,” says Käthe.

“Who are they?”

“A number are journalists who want to go the Britain. A few have people in the UK who want to go their to find out what’s going on. There are a few from the International Relations Department who need to get to London yesterday. We’ve got about four or five Brits looking to get back.”

“Okay,” I start forming our plan of attack. I’m going to need Käthe up there. I grab a chair and step onto the seat so I can be seen above the crowd.

“Excuse me,” I call over the cacophony, “Excuse me!” I say a little louder. No one pays attention.

I put my pinkie fingers in my mouth and loudly let off a whistle. The office goes silent and still.

“Thank you!” I boom over the crowd, “I know you’re all in a rush, but if you calmly follow my instructions, then we can quickly get you to where you need to go!” I take a breath, “If you are a journalist, please form a line in front of Comrade Braband,” I indicate her with my hand and move across the desk, “If you are a member of the diplomatic corp, form a line in front of Comrade Geiszler. If you are a British citizen looking to get back, form a line in front of Comrade Wirnheir. If you are with the British diplomatic corp, form a line in front of Comrade Lehmann. If you do not fall into any of these categories, please form a line in front of Comrade Bauer. If you have any problems that our clerks cannot handle, they will be brought to myself, or Comrade Gerhard. Thank you for your cooperation and patience. We will get you to where you need to go as quickly as possible.”  
I stay on the chair as the lines form and continue to direct the crowd.

“Sir, you’re with the Komet?”

“Miss, could you please…”

I check my watch. It’s now 10:32. From behind me, I hear, “Sabine?”  

I look, it’s Dieter Gerhard. He’s only thirty-two and he’s greying. Otherwise, he has auburn hair, grey eyes behind steel rimmed glasses, average height, and blunt, but not unhandsome features. As I said, he looks like someone who could kill someone with his thumb. I should know. He’s a stickler for the rules, has a Medusa-like glare, is built like a boxer and can bench press 90kg. I should know. We once slept together.

“What’s up?” I ask.

“We’ve got a situation in back,” Dieter answers.

“What sort of situation?” I step off the chair.

“We’ve got someone from the British Ministry of Magic who’s… concerned about our handling of the situation.”

I give a huff and and ask: “So where are they?”

“Back this way,” Dieter says. I follow him past the cubicles of staff processing papers and through a door to a hallway. To one side was a number of offices and a break room. To the other was two conference rooms.There was another hallway that branched off to the left at the end. It lead to a set of washrooms, a storage closet and the head of our department, Annelies Hochberg.

I can’t help but ask, “Where is Annelies?”

Dieter explains: “Hochberg is in an emergency meeting with the Security Committee about the recent developments in Britain. I don’t know when she’ll be back.”

“And Till?”

“With her. Taking minutes I believe.”

We went down the hall to her office. Inside was a man, about middle age, and looked like a lion. He had a thick head of tawny hair, bushy eyebrows and striking gold eyes. He was standing in the middle of Hochberg’s office, hands clasped behind his back and dressed in a simple, yet fine, deep blue robe. The formality of the outfit makes me feel rather sloppy in comparison.

“Herr Rufus Scrimgeour, this is my colleague, Sabine Pätkau,” says Dieter in English.

Scrimgeour extends his hand and I shake it, “Good to meet you, sir.”

“Pleasure,” Scrimgeour says drily. 

I already feel a chill in his voice. The sort of coldness that comes from displeasure and impatience. 

I ask, “Can we get you anything? Coffee? Tea? Something stronger? I believe we have some schnapps—”

“— Now, Mr. Gerhard, Miss Pätkau, I would greatly appreciate that whatever clerical problem there is will be cleared up immediately. I have a most urgent message for your Praesidium,” Cuts Scrimgeour in rather beautiful German.

“Of course,” Dieter replies, switching back to German with easy, “We do not want to keep such an important task waiting.”

“What is the problem, Herr Scrimgeour, if you mind?” I ask. 

I have my game face on. When I started working, I was told of the importance of “arranging one’s face.” Set your face in a the way you want to convey yourself. 

Here, right now, I am East German bureaucrat. And I am here to help.

“It seems that your colleagues believe that papers have some sort of irregularity.”

“May I see it.”

“I would prefer if your Comrade Hochberg were the one to look at it.”

“But Comrade Hochberg is not here now,” states Dieter, “She is in a very important meeting right now and we — Comrade Pätkau and I — can smooth this over.”

“But,” says Scrimgeour, “My reason for being here is pertinent to whatever meeting your Comrade Hochberg is attending.”

Dieter and I pass a look between ourselves. I press my lips then say: “We would still like to look at your papers, Herr Scimgeour, to find whatever problem there is and correct it. So that next time you do not have the same problem.”

The entire time this conversation happened, Scrimgeour kept a stony, inscrutable expression. And he continued this look — not a single muscle in his face twitched — as he took out his papers from a pocket and handed them to me. I take them and go over to Hochberg’s desk and spread them out. 

Passport, visa, letter of introduction.

I quickly read through the letter of introduction; from the head of the Department of International Wizarding Co-operation to Hochberg and the head of Internal Security. Rufus Scrimgeour was deputy head of Britain’s Auror Department, apparently. Everything there seemed to be in good order there. I move to the passport. It was a special passport issued by the Ministry for such an occasion and for such a country as the GDR. Most wizards and witches did not carry such documents, especially older, more pureblood ones; many saw political boarders as mere geographical formalities. 

The information was fairly strait forward. Scrimgeour, Rufus Cyrus. Born in August, 1940 in Wiltshire. He is 41-years-old. Everything seems to be fine. Except the expiry date is for 7 December 1981. He will probably be back in Britain in time for super, but I still say: “You know your passport expires in December, Herr Scrimgeour?”

“Yes,” he answers, “And I will get it renewed.”

“Very good.”

I finally look at the visa. Everything seems to be fine. Until I see the issuing date: 31 October 1981. In their haste, someone forgot to change the stamp’s date to the current day. This is a surprisingly easy fix and I can’t understand why we Hochberg to fix this. I take out my wand and change the date to today’s then flip it to the back, take a pen, and write a quick note and sign. I gather up the papers, turn around and hold them out for Scrimgeour.

“The problem, Herr Scrimgeour, is that the issuing date on your visa was incorrect. A simple mistake. Especially if you are in a hurry.”

Scrimgeour takes them and puts them back in his pocket. In a fit of curiosity I ask: “So what is the news about what’s…”

“Causing this chaos?” Scrimgeour finishes, “You don’t know?”

“Sort of brought in on my day off, sir…”

“Why, He Who Must Not Be Named has been defeated.”

My eyes go wide and Dieter looks surprised.

“Voldemort’s dead?” Dieter asks and Scrimgeour cringes. A visible emotion, finally!

“Indeed.”

“How?” I ask.

Scrimgeour takes a breath then says, “We still do not know the full picture. Professor Dumbledore — the Hogwarts Headmaster — seems to know the full story, is currently making a statement to the Wizengamont right now. Everyone should have the full story by this afternoon, I believe. But from what I understand, his defeat was courtesy of a boy named Harry Potter.”

I don’t know how to react other then to mutter: “I will send a message to Hochberg right now.” I conjure a sheaf of paper and quickly right the note. I tap the paper and it transforms into an airplane and zooms out.

Dieter says: “We won’t keep you longer, Herr Scrimgeour.”

“Thank you.” And we escort him out. When we get to the cubicles, I grab one of the clerks, Carla Paulis and ask her to take Scrimgeour to Hochberg. She introduces herself and they leave.

“Voldemorts dead,” I whisper. I can’t believe it.

Dieter looks over the office, then: “Brave new world.”

“Do we say anything?”

Dieter pauses, then says: “Wait ’til something official comes. In the mean time, we’ll help them,” indicating the front desk people, “Gets this chaos under control.”

I nod. Then glance at my watch. It is 10:50 AM. And the world has changed. Everything’s changed. What strange times we live in.


	6. 1100h

1100h, 1 November 1981, East Berlin

So how does a child defeat the greatest dark wizard since Grindelwald?

Good question.

That puts my romantic wows out of my mind for the time being.

Literally how? It took Dumbledore the duration of World War II to defeat Grindelwald. Chipping away at his power base and support until that final fight in Thuringia. 

So I ask again: how does a child defeat Voldemort? And yes, we east of the Iron Curtain do know about him. As much as allowed. And our government likes to boast how there has never been dark wizard from a Socialist state. Then again, we’ve only been around thirty-some-ought years. Not enough time to really create the sort of person who’d become a dark wizard.

Well, maybe. If they were born early enough, they’d be in their mid-thirties and wreaking havoc. Or, the government could recruit them. Give them an outlet for their sadism, anger, and psychopathy and other proclivities that wouldn’t be used against the general public. 

At least that’s my theory. Nobody seems able to confirm or deny it.

Dieter and I now have the office under some control. We’re still swamped with people, but now in lines and for the most part calm.

I’m not. I won’t let it show on my face, but I dread what’s going to happen when Till comes back. How am I going to handle this? 

How’s he going to handle this?

Till, I know…

I have to be…

There’s no good way about this. I humoured him for too long I let him think that we had something when we didn’t. I strung him along and I didn’t even notice until it was too late. I feel like the biggest idiot ever. 

I’m of two minds right now. As in I’m thinking about what I have to do when I see Till and trying to pay attention to my work.

“— Just be patient, ma’am. All this needs is a signature…”

I don’t count Dieter as one of my relationships. It was casual and purely for sex. I only count something that has commitment. Daniel and I were in a committed relationship. It lasted about a year. Longer than Mattias, for sure. But not much better in the long run.

We were in our final year of school. He was everything one could want from a boyfriend. Good looking, funny, smart. All around fun to be with. All I ever wanted at nineteen.

I remember back to the time I went to my locker one afternoon. Daniel had charmed it so that when I opened it, all these flowers would come spilling out. So flattered and smitten was I. Head over heels in love. In that very teenager way of it. Can’t say at twenty-five I’m much better at this whole romance thing. Maybe I know more about what I want. And it’s not the fairytale I want.

“Sabine?” It’s Carla, “Did you sign the pay sheet?”

Shit. 

“Give me a sec!” The pay sheet is enchanted to automatically record when you come into the office and leave for work. The one thing you have to do manually is to sign the sheet, making it official. It was a final security measure to make sure you weren’t working off the clock, or trying to claim time you didn’t work.

I finish up with the person in front of me and quickly take the pay sheet and sign it. 

I’ve never been happy with my signature. It looks like a sloppy scrawl. All of my efforts to have neat handwriting have often been met with me just casting a charm to make it look nice.

I go back to my work. But then I remember that Daniel was the first person I had sex with. And compared to everyone else I’ve been with, Daniel was rather tame in the bed. It was all missionary and under sheets. In many ways, rather boring. And Daniel had the bad habit of falling asleep right after. Rather depressing in that regard.

And here I am being cruel again. Here I am thinking that I’m some sort of…

What am I?

What is it that makes me any more interesting that any other person in the entire world? Why do I bother even asking something like that? I’m nothing more than a drop in the bucket. Nothing more than a face in the crowd…

I’m doing it again. Dragging myself down. I deserve it though, don’t I?

I try to get my mind back on work. But it all turns into a dull grey blur.

“Name?” I ask, “Date and place of birth?”

The numbness I strive for is once again giving away to my self pity. To that spiral I seem to always let myself get into. That feeling of worthlessness, of self-hatred. It comes back and starts to swallow me. He tried. Daniel tried and I got cold and selfish and…

I’m hearing everything like I’m underwater. I can just make out the words, but they’re all distorted and muffled. Everything’s distant and I feel as if I’m floating. Like I’m not the one doing any of this work. I’m just watching. I feel my chest tighten…

I hear myself ask Carla to take over. I need to get somewhere to calm down.

I go back. Back down the hallway to the washrooms. Blindly push my was into the woman’s room. Find my way to a bathroom stall. Lock it behind me. Cast as silencing charm.   
My breathing is heavy. It’s laboured. My chest is tight. I sit down — more collapse — on the toilet. My head sinks down and rests on my knees and I put my arms around my head in an attempt to cover my ears. all in an attempt to close myself off from the rest of the world. 

I get into these funks frequently and start wallowing in self pity. And yet I never think about how I hurt others do I. No, I do. I do know that I hurt others, that seems to be a talent I have. I give people hope that I’ll be the one they can trust and rely upon. And I hurt them. I wound them. I’m cruel to them…

I was cruel and mean-spirited to Mattias. I was the queen of mixed messages to Daniel. And to Elias… To Elias I was cruelest of all… 

What’s wrong with me that I do this all the time to them? To myself?

There I go again: being a selfish brat.

I’m a mess bar none.

Get yourself together, Sabine.

Get yourself together…

Get yourself…

It wasn’t that Daniel himself was bad. It’s that his approach to romance was over the top and stifling. I don’t know what happened to him with previous girlfriends — or heaven forbid something further back — but it always felt that I was there to fill a void. It never felt that Daniel was there because he truly loved me for me. I felt that I was placeholder for something missing. But as a placeholder, in his eyes I was dangerously temporary. If he didn’t preform these grand romantic gestures — flowers, letters, poems, gifts, and yes, sex — he’d lose me. He once stood outside my home, in the courtyard, with an enchanted radio playing some love song. It was a rainy summer morning. I was flattered. And in many ways embarrassed. I remember crying the neighbours will hear! I got him inside. We spent the rest of the day together in my bed. Sometimes making love. Sometimes holding each other. And he was far too fragile to handle the loss.

And as it happened, he would lose me. When we were together, he would constantly tell me that he missed me, that he needed me. That he hated being away from me. And every hour was agony for him.

It’s nice to know that you’re needed and wanted. But this… This I had a hard time handling. I became his world. put up on a pedestal. I was his treasure, his angle, his goddess. And I waited with held breath for the moment he’d realize how terribly human I was. How flawed. How weak. How selfish. How much of a burden I was. I could never be what Daniel wanted or needed. But I did everything I could to be what he wanted. What he thought he needed. I burnt myself out. I was exhausted. And in the end I snapped.

“Will you please leave me alone!” I shouted one day.

“What!”

“Leave me the hell alone!” there was a pause, like I was trying to get a dog to run home, “Why do I have to be the one who does everything for you! I can’t breath without you being all over me!”

“I don’t understand what you’re talking about!”

“Whenever you’re upset, I’m there for you. Whenever you’ve been worried about school or work, I’m there. I’m always there. At you beck and call. But I haven’t talked to my friends in months. I barely see my family because I’m always with you! And I still live with them! I give all my time and energy to you and what do I get? Exhaustion!”

It felt like I was kicking a hurt dog. I was the bad guy once more. I was twenty and tired and wanted this relationship to be done and over. But I hated doing this. I was angry at Daniel. But I hated myself for letting it all go for this long. 

We fought for longer. I finally walked off. I refused to talk to him. He sent me letters. Tried to call. Begged to let me take him back. You know, the usual. All the while, I was coldly ignored him. The letters went to the trash. I’d answer the phone, only to hang up as soon as I heard his voice. 

I feel hot tears roll down my face. 

I’ve got to do this again. I’m always the bitch, aren’t I. I never make this easy. 

Maybe I should just resign myself to matrimony with Till. Then I’m not breaking his heart.

Stop that Sabine. You’d be miserable. And in turn, Till will be miserable when (or if) he realized the sort of person I am.

I rub my eyes until I start seeing stars. God, I must look like garbage. 

How appropriate. 

Just breath, Sabine. Just breath.

Could be worse. It could be like when you left Elias…

My chest tightens once more. That was even worse than Daniel or Mattias. That was all my fault because I was such a coward. A supreme coward.

Stop thinking that. You have work to do.

Come on. You had something special there. A once in a lifetime thing. And what do you do? You got scared, you fool. And yeah. At the end of the day, Elias was far too good for you. You never deserved him.

If I could have a fucking drink right now…

What do I have to do to get out of this? Run for the Wall?

No. No stop this. Get out of this. Just calm down. What time is it? 11:28? 

Twenty-eight minutes? No, couldn’t have. Ten, fifteen minutes maybe. Okay, maybe twenty minutes. Time’s weird in the bathroom. And I really should get back. 

I unlock the door and go over to the bank of sinks. And of course I look like shit. My eyes red and puffy, cheeks blotchy, hair a mess. I turn on the water and splash my face, try to cool my skin down. I conjure up some towels and a brush. I dry my face and it starts to feel less puffy. I take the elastic from my ponytail, shake out my hair, then brush it through. I look back up in the mirror and at least I look a little more presentable.

I straighten my sweater and skirt out. Take a deep breath Sabine. You can make it through this day. Breath in. Breath out. You’ll be fine. You’ll be fine.

Thank God I’m not wearing makeup or have any glamours on. I turn on the water once more, conjure a glass, fill it. I take a sip. Calm my nerves. I vanish everything. I check my watch again. It’s 11:37 now. I put my wand back in my pocket and put the elastic back in my hair. I tug at my hair, make the ponytail high and somewhat tight. I brush my bangs to aside. Dry your eyes, get back to work. Don’t let anything show.

I walk back; through the hallway and the cubicles. I find that the main waiting area is quieter now. There are people there, for sure. But the insanity of earlier has mostly cooled down. Now it is just sitting and waiting for one’s turn.

I can hang back now, and intervene when needed. I don’t see Till anywhere, but I know that I will have to talk to him soon. The plan is simple. Wait until he’s here, take him aside, explain as kindly as possible about what’s going on, give him back the ring, and then quietly slip out. No harm done. 

No… No. 

I’ll break his heart. But I may just save him a lot of problems. I’ll save him from me…

Stop thinking that. Just remember to be kind.

Firm, but kind.

Till, I know you think we have something together. But I honestly think you are making…

“You’re going to have to be clear,” I remember Dieter saying.

I have files open before me, right here and now, waiting for my signature. But I’m remembering back a few months. Back at the end of July. I’m in Dieter’s apartment, dressed in nothing but my panties and one of his dress shirts. I’m on the couch, Dieter at the stove making breakfast. 

“Clear about what?” I ask, going through one of his newspapers.

“About how uninterested you are in him.”

I had been single since the previous November. And back in March, Till, for whatever reason, started sniffing around and fixated on me. 

I’ve been trying to brush him off, tried to rebuke him. Gently. And with hints. Till never seemed to get the message. I’ve never understood why he picked me out from everyone else. I mean, I’m not from a particularly well off family. I still live at home. And I’ve often soled myself short education and employment wise. I wasn’t really that great of a catch. 

“I can’t help that he’s so oblivious,” I reply.

“Block head’s like Till do not understand subtlety, Sabine. You’re going to have to be very clear.”

I check my watch nervously. 11:49. 

Till is still not here. 

What’s taking him?

The velvet box in my bag burns at the back of my mind. I know that the easy way out would be to leave a note. Or come back tomorrow, and talk to Till after work; before we left for the evening. But I know that if I am to get any peace of mind, I need to do this now.

I check my watch once again. It’s 11:50…

I continue going through the files. I sign. I organize. I send things back to Hochberg’s office. 

My stomach’s in knots. I’m nervous. But, you need to do this, Sabine. For the good of everyone, you need to do this…

It’s 11:53. And the door to the office opens.

**Author's Note:**

> This is a fanfic I'm working on for NaNo. My goal for this is to explore various head canons and theories I've had about the lives of Central and Eastern Europeans muggleborns and finish this before 30 November! There is no official schedule, but each chapter covers about an hour in the day, so there will be 24 chapters.


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